The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 10

As she rode across town in her coach, Elizabeth kept thinking about what Granny Meg had said. She was both fascinated and frightened by the mysterious cards that Granny Meg used to divine the future. She wished the strange cards could have been more specific. They spoke of misery and sorrow and destruction, but they also spoke of justice. And then when Granny Meg had told her that she would be seeing Tuck again soon-“your young man,” she had called him-Elizabeth had felt herself blushing and had looked away. Doubtless, it had been a pointless thing to do, for it did not seem possible to hide anything from the wise old cunning woman. Nevertheless, she had felt embarrassed and had already started for the stairs leading down to the shop when she had heard Granny Meg add, from behind her, “Tell him to beware the moon.”

That strange and cryptic warning had brought her up short. Whatever had Granny Meg meant by that? But when Elizabeth had turned to ask her, the room was empty. Granny Meg was gone.

For a moment, Elizabeth had just stood there, stunned and speechless. How was it possible for Granny Meg to have simply disappeared? Except for the stairs leading down to the shop, there was no way in or out of the room. It was as if she had never even been there in the first place. Elizabeth had swallowed hard, thinking once again what she had thought only a short while before: What if the old cunning woman had never really been there at all? What if she truly was a ghost? Elizabeth turned and nearly ran downstairs.

The overcast sky had turned dark, and it began to thunder as the coach drove through the London streets, taking her toward Henry Mayhew’s house. She did not really know Portia’s father very well. They had only met on a few occasions, and then just briefly. For that matter, until recently, she had not known Portia Mayhew much better.

Henry Mayhew had struck her as a man who had a great deal in common with her own father. They shared the same first name, and they were both men who had not been born to money, but had worked hard and achieved success later in life, which made them value what they had achieved all the more. Like her own father, Henry Mayhew had seemed almost entirely preoccupied with business and was probably not the sort of man who had very much time for women. To such a man, as to her own father, a woman was merely a sort of accoutrement, one that served a specific purpose, much like a prized mount or a sporting hound. Elizabeth chuckled to herself at the unintentional and ribald pun implicit in the thought. A “prized mount,” indeed.

She tried to imagine if there had ever been a time when her own father had thought of her mother that way. Clearly, there must have been, for she was living proof of that; however, it seemed impossible to imagine. Perhaps they had merely procreated because it was what married couples were supposed to do. She could not believe her father ever could have acted anything even remotely like the characters in the romantic poems she had read. Indeed, he had expressed his scorn for such pursuits on more than one occasion. He believed that poetry was idle nonsense, fit only for players, bards, and gypsies, not “serious” people. To him, the very idea of romance was foolish. And her mother certainly did not seem like the sort of woman to inspire it. Her parents seemed merely to share the same house and the same bed. Each had his or her own duties to perform, and neither seemed to spend very much rime even speaking to the other. It seemed like such a pointless way to live. Had they ever even been in love?

She knew that their marriage had been arranged, just as most marriages were these days. Marriage for love, as her mother had often said, was all right for “the common sort of people,” but it was hardly appropriate for “the upper classes,” who needed to concern themselves with more practical matters. The way her mother spoke, one might think they were aristocrats, rather than members of the rising middle class. Or perhaps that was merely the way her mother placated herself for the lack of romance in her life.

Elizabeth had sworn that she would never do that. She would never marry a man she did not love and simply acquiesce to what he and everyone else seemed to expect of her, regardless of her own desires. And if there was anything that she could do to prevent Portia from having to succumb to such a fate, then she would do it without any hesitation.

Once again, her thoughts turned to Tuck’s father. What an appalling, arrogant, selfish, and deceitful man! She tried to imagine whether Tuck could ever become like that when he grew older. She shook her head, as if to dispel the very idea. She felt ashamed of herself for even thinking it. Except for a familial physical resemblance, the father and the son had nothing at all in common- most fortunately, she thought. What could possibly account for the two of them being so very different? But then again, what could account for her being so different from her own mother? Had there ever been a time when her mother had thought and felt the same way she did? And if there had, then what could have happened to change her so? Was it merely a matter of advancing age, Elizabeth wondered, or was it marriage to her father that had beaten her down?

The thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky outside her coach window. The rain began to pelt down. She felt a little sorry for the coachman, sitting up there exposed to the elements in nothing but his hat and cloak, but then that was his job. And at the same time she thought that no one would ever be telling him whom he must marry. He was free to marry anyone he pleased.

She wondered what his life was like. Did he have a ‘life awaiting him at home? And if so, how long had they been married? Were they like her parents, who merely slept together to keep each other warm? Or did they, despite the little money that they had, still find romance and passion in their lives? Did they make love in bed by candlelight, or perhaps upon the floor, with their sweaty, naked bodies intertwined before the hot and roaring fire in their hearth?

Elizabeth moistened her lips and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. This was not the sort of thought she should be entertaining as she was preparing to meet Portia’s father and convince him of the utter wrongness of his course. She needed to have her wits about her, to be serious and level-headed. Any sort of emotional appeal would be wasted on him. Her argument would have to be completely logical and practical. It would not do, she thought, to argue that Portia was too distraught with grief and needed time to mend her broken heart. He would dismiss that as a trifling matter, a foolish woman’s argument. No she thought, the thing to do would be to focus upon Tuck’s father, the man to whom Henry Mayhew was apparently about to betroth his daughter. She would have to convince him of the truth about Symington Smythe II, Esquire, that he was a fraud and a bounder, whose true object was not to find himself a suitable wife, but to get his hands upon her father’s money.

Of course, that meant she would have to tell him how she knew. She wondered how Mayhew would respond to that. She was not ashamed of Tuck, and she did not keep her friendship with him secret from either her family or her friends. Her father did not object to it, exactly. He tolerated it, in a rather grudging sort of way, in part because he felt indebted to Tuck and in part, she felt, because he trusted him to behave in an honourable fashion. That seemed somewhat incongruous, perhaps, because Tuck was a player and players were generally considered, more or less, to be on a level with prostitutes and gypsies. A man such as her father-in other words, someone like Henry Mayhew-would not normally think that players could behave in an honourable fashion, much less except them to. Nor would her father have thought so, in all likelihood, had not Tuck and Will proven themselves in his eyes. He still did not entirely approve of them, but neither could he bring himself to disapprove. And somewhere in that region of vague tolerance and indecision was bounded her relationship with Tuck.

It was something more than friendship and somewhat less than love. Or at least less than a love that was openly acknowledged or expressed. And if her father should ever suspect that, thought Elizabeth, then what little tolerance he had for their relationship would probably be strained beyond endurance. So long as he believed that it was merely a friendship, or perhaps even a mildly rebellious sort of infatuation on her part, stimulated by its social impropriety, then he could choose to look the other way and sniff disdainfully, shrug his shoulders, roll his eyes, and assume that she would eventually tire of it. However, it was one thing to be vaguely tolerant of her relationship with Tuck because she was discreet about it and never forced the issue or even brought it up in conversation, thereby enabling him to act as if it did not truly exist, yet it was another thing entirely to have someone like Henry Mayhew question him about it. That would throw discretion out the window with all the subtlety of breaking wind at vespers.

“You truly permit your unmarried daughter to associate with players?” she could imagine Mayhew saying to her father. “Good Lord, man, what can you possibly be thinking? ‘Strewth, she has not compromised her virtue so much as dragged it through the mud! Have you taken leave of all your senses?”

She could imagine such a conversation all too easily. And in that event, if he were forced to deal with her relationship with Tuck in a way that would publicly embarrass him, she had no doubt that not only would he put his foot down and forbid it, but he would once again resume his efforts to get her married off… except that next time, he might not be so particular about to whom.

She sighed and chewed her lower lip nervously. There was simply no escaping it. Warning Henry Mayhew about Symington Smythe meant telling him about her relationship with his son. And no matter how inconsequential she could try to make it seem, there was no way to make it appear proper and acceptable. Inescapably, trying to help Portia any further meant endangering her relationship with Tuck. But then, revealing the truth to Mayhew went beyond merely trying to help Portia. it meant saving her from a disastrous and appalling marriage. And she had already been through enough pain and suffering. To add to it by saying nothing and thus allowing her to fall into Symington Smythe’s clutches would be simply unforgivable. And what was more, Elizabeth had no doubt that Tuck would see it that way, too.

It was still raining very hard and the wind had picked up by the time the coach pulled up in front of Henry Mayhew’s home. As the coachman came down off the box to open the door for her, Elizabeth pulled up the hood of her cloak and then carefully stepped down onto the slick, wet cobblestones. She quickly climbed the steps up to the house on tiptoe, hoping that it would not take long for someone to answer the door. She did not relish the idea of waiting very long out in this storm. Much more of this, she thought, and her light shoes were going to be ruined. To her surprise, when she went to knock upon the door, she found that it had not been completely closed. Her first knock pushed it open slightly. She frowned as she opened it and went inside, thinking that it was rather careless of the servants not to close the door properly.

“‘Allo” she called out, as she stood just inside the doorway. “’Allo, is anybody home?”

There was no reply forthcoming. It was dark inside. The storm had made the night come early, but there were no candles burning in the hall. That seemed rather peculiar. Even if Mayhew was not at home, surely the servants were. What could they be thinking, leaving the house so dark? It certainly looked as if they were being derelict in their duties.

“‘Allo, ’allo?” she called out once again.

There was no answer. A moment later, she heard what sounded like a soft moan.

“ ‘Allo, is someone there?” she called out again, frowning. It was difficult to see well in the dark. She wished she had a candle. She took several steps forward and suddenly tripped over something large lying at her feet and fell to the floor, crying out in alarm.

Someone groaned quite dose to her, and a man’s voice said,

“Oh, my God‘!”

Elizabeth gasped and sat up on the floor. “Merciful Heavens!

Who is there?“

She suddenly felt a hand close around her ankle, and instinctively she cried out and jerked her foot away, scuttling backward.

“Ow… help me, please…” someone said.

Whoever it was, she realized, was on the floor alongside her. She had tripped over someone, someone who was obviously hurt and in pain.

She took a deep breath. “Steady now,” she said, steeling her nerves. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could now make out someone stretched out on the floor nearby. “I shall try to help you. Here, hold out your hand.”

She crawled over to the prostrate figure and saw a hand reaching out, unsteadily. She took hold of it. “Right, I have you. Now you shall have to help me. Can you stand? I cannot lift you up all by myself.”

“I… shall try…

They struggled to their feet, Elizabeth trying to hold him steady. Fortunately, he was not a large or heavy man. It took a moment or two, but they managed to stand up together.

“Come on, now, lean on me,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth

Darcie. I am Portia’s friend. Who are you, fellow?“

“I am Hastings, mistress… the… the steward of this house…”

“What happened, Hastings? Are you ill or injured?”

“Ohh… my head. They dubbed me down, the base villains…” He gasped suddenly, though not so much with pain apparently, as with alarm. “Oh, good God! Master Henry and Mistress Winifred! Oh dear, oh dear, I fear what has befallen them! They were at home when those scoundrels broke in!”

“How many of them were there?” asked Elizabeth, alarmed that they might still be in the house.

“I… I am not certain. At least three or four, methinks. Perhaps more… oh, alas, I fear for Master Henry and poor Mistress Winifred!”

“We shall find them, Hastings,” Elizabeth replied. “Calm yourself. Think now, was it already raining when these men attacked you and broke in?”

“Nay, mistress,” he answered without hesitation. “‘Twas not raining.”

“Good. ‘Twas a while ago, then, and with luck they may already have fled. You must fetch a candle or a lantern. And a weapon, if you have one. Quickly, if you can.”

“At once, mistress… perhaps you had best wait here…

But Elizabeth did not wait. “While Hastings went to get a light, she reached inside her cloak and pulled out the small bodkin that she carried with her whenever she went out. It was not a large dagger, but it was very well made, double edged and exceedingly sharp. It had been a present from Tuck, and she prized it because he had made it especially for her. He had given her some lessons in the proper use of it, and although it hardly made her feel invincible, she thought that if she had to use it, she could do so without any hesitation and with a fair degree of competency.

As she moved cautiously through the dark house, she held the bodkin ready in her hand and listened carefully for the slightest sound. She thought that it was likely those men were no longer in the house, but just the same, she moved slowly and tried to keep her footsteps as soft as possible. She felt a tightness in her stomach, and her breaths were quick and shallow. She felt afraid, but she refused to let that stop her. Somewhere in the house, there could be injured people who would need her help.

As she came toward the end of the hall, she heard a thumping sound and froze, the hairs prickling at the back of her neck. She held her breath. Where was it coming from? Could it be the robbers coming back down the stairs?

“Mistress Elizabeth!” she heard Hastings call out from behind her. It nearly made her jump. “Mistress Elizabeth, where are you?”

“Here, Hastings! Hurry!”

A moment later, she saw a light approaching. Hastings came toward her with a lantern and what appeared to be a battle-ax.

“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”

“Master Henry had it hanging upon the wall,” said Hastings, who had recovered somewhat, although he still looked a bit unsteady. She could see now that he was not a young man. He was about her height, thin as a rake, bald at the crown, with wispy white hair that stuck out from the sides of his head. “Would that I had this in my hands when those misbegotten wastrels broke in here!” he said, giving the battle-ax a shake. “I would have shown them what for!”

“Be quiet, Hastings! Listen!”

He stopped. The thumping noises continued.

“Do you hear?” she asked. “What is that?”

“The other servants!” he said after a moment. “In the kitchen!” He led the way and she followed.

They found them tied up in the kitchen. They quickly released the two women, who were frightened, but otherwise unharmed. They lit some candles and together all went in search of Henry Mayhew and Mistress Winifred, whom Elizabeth assumed to be the woman that Portia had told her about not long ago, the one who was going to be her stepmother. They soon found her in an upstairs bedroom, tied up and gagged and stretched out on the bed.

“Oh, my Lord!” cried Hastings when he saw her, and he nearly dropped the lantern. Elizabeth, however, ran immediately to her bedside with the two other women, and they soon had her untied.

“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked her, helping her sit up. She hesitated. “Did they hurt you?”

Winifred shook her head as she massaged her wrists. “Nay, they did not molest me,” she replied with surprising frankness.

“‘Twas not me that they wanted.”

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

“They took Henry,” Winifred replied. She glanced at the servants. “Why are you standing there and dithering? Get some light in here! Look around the house and see if they have taken anything. Go on, now! Be quick about it!”

As the servants quickly moved to follow her directives, she turned to Elizabeth. “I would be much obliged if you would tell me who you are, young woman, so that I may thank you properly.”

“My name is Elizabeth Darcie.”

“Henry Darcie’s daughter,” Winifred replied, nodding. “Well, I am most grateful to you, Elizabeth. How did you happen to come here? Is anything amiss with Portia?”

“Nay, Portia is well,” Elizabeth replied. “That is, she is still mired in her grief for Thomas, but when I left her, she was otherwise unharmed. You do not suppose those men…” She trailed off, unable to finish articulating the appalling thought that had just occurred to her.

“I do not think. so,” Winifred replied, getting to her feet. “They demanded to know where she was. They were most insistent, but neither Henry nor I would tell them. Henry stubbornly refused to speak., so, fearing that they might ham him, I told them that she had run away from home and that we did not know where she was. They then took Henry and departed, after tying me up and carrying me upstairs. And save for the soreness in my ”“‘fists and ankles where they bound me up, they did not harm me in any way.”

“Well, thank goodness for that, at least,” Elizabeth replied. “I must say, you have been very brave through all of this.”

“Brave?” Winifred snorted. “I was terrified out of my wits. I feel like sitting down and having a good long cry, but there is not time for that. I must try to think how to help Henry.” She balled her hands up into fists. “I cannot, I must not, be weak now. I must keep my wits about me. These were no ordinary robbers, to be sure. They kept wanting to know where Portia was. I can only suppose they meant to abduct her and hold her for ransom, and failing to find her, they took Henry, instead, thinking to make me pay for his safe return.”

“Perhaps not,” said Elizabeth tensely.

Winifred gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean? What other reason could there be?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “These men sound like ruffiers,” she replied. “Men who knew what they were about. And unless there were things stolen from your house, ‘twould seem to me that they came specifically for Portia and her father. If they truly meant to abduct Portia and hold her for ransom, then when they failed to find her here, why take her father? Why not take you in her place, and thus force him to pay for your safe return instead?”

“Indeed, why not?” Winifred replied. She shook her head. “I do not know. But why else would they have done what they did?”

“Perhaps because someone seeks revenge for the murder of Thomas Locke,” Elizabeth told her. “Namely, his father, Who I have been told is one of the masters of the Thieves Guild. Thus, ‘tis fortunate that you told them you did not know where Portia,vas. However, they may not have believed you when you said that she ran away, and now that they have taken her father, they may try to force it out of him.”

“Then before anything else is done,” said Winifred, ‘we must get Portia out of your house and hide her somewhere.“

“I have a coach waiting outside,” Elizabeth said.

“Then we must go there straightaway,” said Winifred. “Henry is a strong-willed man, but he is no longer young, and if they put him to the question, he may not long hold out against them.”

Hastings came back into the room at that moment, looking somewhat perplexed. “Mistress Winifred, ‘tis a most curious thing!” he said. “The house is not in any disarray, and it does not appear as if they have taken anything!”

“Then you were right, Elizabeth,” said Winifred. “‘Twas Portia they were after all along! Let us make all haste! We must get to her before they do!”

Things were looking rather grim, indeed. As Smythe looked up toward the dais where the masters of the Thieves Guild sat, he desperately tried to make eye contact with the one person in the room who could be in a position to help them.

Moll Cutpurse was unique among women in the status she had achieved in her profession. There was not a foist or a pickpocket in all of London who could ply his or her trade without answering to her. It was said-by Robert Greene, among others-that she operated a school for pickpockets and cut-purses, training them in the arts that she had mastered. Many of her pupils were small children, often orphans with no homes, whom she taught to fend for themselves in London’s streets and alley-ways. Others were people like Smythe himself, who came to London in search of work after the enclosures had driven them from their lands but found, when they reached the city, that work was scarce and difficult to come by. Those who, unlike Smythe and Shakespeare, were not fortunate enough to find work were often left with little choice but to resort to begging or else turn to crime, and these, too, found a friend in the unusual woman who dressed like a man and fought like a man and was known by a variety of names, the most infamous of which was Moll Cutpurse.

Her real name was Mary Flannery, which was a secret few men knew. Smythe just happened to be one of them. And he knew it because he also knew another secret about Moll Cutpurse, one she guarded closely. He knew she had a younger sister by the name of Molly, who worked as a serving wench at the Toad and Badger. Just now, he was hoping very hard that this knowledge would stand him in good stead, for judging by the way things looked, they were going to be in great need of a friend among this crowd.

Shakespeare groaned beside him. “Now here is yet another-”

“Do not say it!” Smythe cautioned him. “Do not even attempt to blame all this on me or, so help me God, I shall box your ears right here in front of everyone.”

“Having my ears boxed would be the very least of my worries at the moment,” Shakespeare replied. “Looking around at this scurvy lot, I shall count myself fortunate if we manage to leave this place alive.”

‘Well, we are not dead yet.“

“Not yet,” Shakespeare said wryly. “Do you suppose your friend Moll Cutpurse remembers you and the kindness that you showed her sister?”

“I do most earnestly hope so,” Smythe replied. “I have been trying to catch her eye, but she has not yet looked toward us.”

“Mayhap she does not wish to see us,” Shakespeare said. “Depending upon how the wind is blowing, this may not be a convenient time for her to admit she knows us.”

“If that is so, then you may be sure I shall remind her at the very first opportunity,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare gave him an uneasy sidelong glance. “Just have a care,” he said. “She is the only one we know with any influence among this crowd.” He looked around with trepidation. “If, under the present circumstances, we should become inconvenient friends for her, then we are liable to wind up late, lamented friends.”

“We shall see,” said Smythe, still trying to catch her eye. But she did not look toward them. She seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation with the man upon her left.

“Here we go,” said Shakespeare.

Charles Locke picked up the wooden mallet that lay before him and struck the table with it three times. “This meeting shall come to order!” he called Out. The noise of the crowd around them gradually died away. He waited until there was complete silence before continuing.

“We shall dispense with our usual order of business on this day,” he said. “Many among you already know the reason why. And as for those of you who do not know, I pray, attend me.

“Oh, this does not look good,” said Shakespeare softly.

“Be quiet, Will.”

Locke continued. “I had a son,” he said. He paused and looked down at the table for a moment, attempting to compose himself, There was not another sound within the chamber. All ears hung upon his every word.

“I had a son,” he said once more, clenching his hand into a fist as he looked up. “A son by my wife, Rachel, who had very nearly died in birthing him and was afterwards pronounced unable to bear any more children. No matter, thought I, grateful beyond words that my dear wife should have survived the terrible ordeal of the birth. This one son would be enough. This one son would evermore be my contentment, for upon this one son my sun would rise and set. This one son I would cherish and raise up into a man to make a father proud. This one son would be my legacy and my ongoing purpose in this world. And so, throughout his young life,

I doted on him, and sought to provide him with every opportunity that I was myself denied. Thus, he grew into a fine young man, well known to many of those among you, a young man who became apprenticed to a tailor, Leffingwell by name, and who, upon completing his term of apprenticeship, became a journeyman in the shop of that same Leffingwell, who had considered him a credit to his business. Thus did a proud father look upon his son, who had grown into a man going out into the world upon his own, and who had become betrothed co a young woman of good family and would soon, no doubt, sire children of his own. I looked upon this one son and was both pleased and proud. Could any man ask for any more?“

“We are dead,” said Shakespeare flatly.

“Not yet,” said Smythe, for Moll Cutpurse had looked, for the first time, directly at him and had given him a nod.

Locke paused. A murmur went up among the crowd. Then it died away again as he continued. “Of late, it came to my attention that my son, Thomas, was planning to elope. The two men who had brought this news to me are the very men who sit before you now. Their names are Smythe and Shakespeare. They cold me that they were players with the company of Lord Strange’s Men. I found this rather curious, for I could not think what these two players would have to do with my son Thomas’s affairs. And so I inquired of them, how came they by this news? Why, I asked of them, would my son wish to elope when the father of his prospective bride had readily given his consent and blessing to the marriage? And upon being asked this, they then told me that the father of the bride had not only withdrawn his consent to the match, but had forbidden his daughter from ever seeing my son again, and that they had heard this from my own son’s lips during a visit to the shop of my son’s good friend Ben Dickens, the armourer.”

“Nay, this is not looking good at all,” murmured Shakespeare. “Hush, Will,” Smythe replied. “All is not yet lost.”

Locke continued speaking. “You may imagine my surprise,” he said, ‘When I heard this news from two men who were strangers to me, when my own son had said nothing. And ’twas this very fact which lent credence to their tale, you see, for if my son truly had intended to elope with this young woman, then both he and she would have intended to keep this knowledge secret from their respective parents. There yet remained the question… why? Why would the father of this girl at first give his consent, only to withdraw it soon thereafter? Why would he at first look upon the match with favour, only to look upon it later with revulsion? What could have brought about so profound a change in his affections? What could bring him to despise my son, whom he had but lately loved as a prospective son-in-law? And so I asked these men that very question… why? And there came the answer, ‘Because his mother is a Jew.’“

The crowd began to murmur once again. Smythe looked around at them, but in the dim light, he could not dearly make out many faces. They all sat in the shadows, like some dreadful court that sat in judgment of their fate. And that was exactly what they were, thought Smythe. A court. A thieves’ court, if such a thing could be. And what appeal could be made to such a court, he wondered? How could one sway a court that did not recognize any law except its own? How could he plead that he was not guilty of any crime to a court whose members were guilty of nearly every crime? What would he say to them? And would they even offer him a chance to speak before they reached their judgement?

“Some of you may be surprised to learn that my wife is a Jewess,” Locke continued. “And some of you already knew. Those of you who did not know might ask, ‘How could he be married to a Jew?’ And ‘Why would any Christian man make such a marriage?’ To those, I say that I did not marry a Jew; I married a woman. And for each Jew that you may show me who is not a Christian, I can also show you a Christian who is not a Christian. If the Lord truly said that thou shalt not steal, then each and everyone of us has disobeyed tile Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not kill, then every soldier who has ever fought and killed an enemy has disobeyed the Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, then there is scarcely anyone among us who has not, at one time or another, likewise disobeyed the Lord, for the sin would be in the desire as much as in the act.”

There was some general laughter at this last remark, and to his dismay and disbelief, Smythe actually heard Shakespeare mutter, “That was a good line, that one. Would that I had my pen.” He quickly shushed him.

“It would not have mattered to me if my wife were Protestant or Catholic,” said Locke, “and so it did not matter to me if she came from Jewish stock. Her parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, as their parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, for that was what most Jews who remained in England had to do, or else be driven out. Yet even so, they were reviled by many Englishmen, good Christians all, who burned their homes and beat them and abused them.

“My wife, Rachel, lived among us as a Christian,” he continued, “but if she was not a true Christian because she did not go to church each Sunday, then neither arc many among us true Christians for the selfsame reason. And if she honoured the traditions of her ancestors, without doing dishonour to the traditions of anybody else, then where lies the fault in that? Yet I am not here to defend my wife this night; I am here to prosecute the one who killed her son. Our son, who was a Christian, and who attended church each and every Sunday, and who never stole, and never killed, and never coveted anyone save for the girl he truly loved and hoped to marry. He honoured the traditions of his mother, although he did not follow them himself, because we had raised him as a Christian. And yet. and yet, in the traditions of his mother’s people, one is a Jew if one’s mother is a Jew. And ironically, this one tradition of the Jews… alone among all of their traditions.. was the one that Henry Mayhew chose to recognize when he refused to let my son marry his daughter.”

“Odd’s blood!” said Shakespeare softly. “‘Tis not us he holds to blame, but Henry Mayhew! And yet if that is so. what does he want with us? Why have we been brought here?”

Smythe shook his head. “I do not know, Will. Perhaps, in part, he does believe we are to blame. Or at least I am to blame, for ‘twas I who had advised Thomas to elope. The fault in that was mine and mine alone. I shall tell them you are not to blame for that.”

“‘Tis not right to blame you, either,” Shakespeare replied. “You were only trying to help. The one who bears the blame for young Locke’s death can only be the one who killed him. Surely, they must see that!”

An undertone of conversation suddenly broke out as three men came into the room. Two of them were leading the third between them, one holding each of his arms, while a sack covered his face and head. They led him to a stool that had been placed in the centre of the room, roughly twenty feet in front of Smythe and Shakespeare, between them and the dais where Charles Locke and the other masters of the thieves Guild sat. They sat him down upon the stool, and as they did so Smythe could see that his hands were tied behind him.

“Do you suppose…” Shakespeare began, but then his voice trailed off as one of the men reached out and pulled the sack off their captive’s head.

“Your name is Henry Mayhew, is it not?” Locke demanded. The murmuring grew louder as the man glanced around apprehensively, and Locke picked up the mallet and struck it on the table several times to restore silence.

“You already know my name,” Mayhew replied in an affronted tone, “for you have abducted me by force from my own home. And yet I know not yours. ‘Who are you, and what is this place? ’Why have I been brought here?”

“I shall ask the questions here,” said Locke, “and you shall answer them forthrightly, or else face the consequences. But so that you may know why you are here and who I am, I shall tell you that this is a meeting of the Thieves Guild, and that my name is Charles Locke, and that you are here to answer for the murder of my son.” Conversation broke out once again, and this time Locke allowed it to continue for a while, as if to let it all sink in for Mayhew.

“‘Strewth!” said Smythe softly. “They are going to hold a trial for him! And we must have been brought here to testify!”

Shakespeare shook his head. “They cannot do this,” he murmured. “This is not a trial, but a mockery! There is no justice in this!”

“‘Tis their justice,” Smythe said, “according to their law.”

“And ‘twould seem they have already reached their verdict.”

Shakespeare said. “The poor sod. He shall have no chance, no chance at all.”

Locke hammered upon the table once again to restore order.

“‘What say you to the charge?” he demanded.

“So you are Thomas’s father?” replied Mayhew. “How ironic we should meet like this. I must say, you look remarkably well for a man who was supposed to have been dead.”

Locke frowned. “Dead? What nonsense is this? ‘What do you mean? Who told you I was dead?”

“Your son,” Mayhew replied.

Locke leaned forward. “What? You expect me to believe that my own son told you I was dead?”

“Believe what you like,” Mayhew replied derisively. “It makes no difference to me, one way or the other. I have nothing to gain here, and nothing left to lose. ‘Tis dear to me that you have already determined my fate. But your son, when I first met him, told me that he was an orphan, that both his parents had died when he was very young. Considering that his father was a criminal and his mother was a Jew, then I suppose that would explain why he chose to lie.”

Mayhew’s remarks provoked an immediate outburst among the crowd. Locke simply stared at him with cold fury, his hands balled into fists upon the table.

“He is sealing his own fate,” said Smythe.

“Nay, his fate is already sealed,” said Shakespeare. “He was right about that. But he is acquitting himself bravely.”

“There is a difference between arrogance and bravery,” said Smythe. “The man is acting like a fool”

“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But an innocent fool, methinks.” Smythe frowned and glanced at him. “Innocent?”

“Aye,” Shakespeare replied. “He may be an arrogant fool, and he may have refused to let his daughter marry Thomas Locke, but I do not believe he is a murderer. I do not think he did it.”